


Page Cazaril

by tuval



Category: Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuval/pseuds/tuval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Page Cazaril, pining for the future Royina Ista, schemes to be close to her for one last evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Page Cazaril

Lupe dy Cazaril pelted down the corridor, shoe leather slapping noisily. If the Provincara heard him, he would be due a scolding, but if she saw his muddy state, he'd be due a scolding anyway. Lanky as he was, he still could not possibly make it back to his room, change, and get to the dining room in time to wait the high table. Cindon dy Nalven would take his place.

Cazaril pulled the tunic over his head as he ran. He should have been expecting some kind of dirty trick, particularly since Lady Ista was due to leave in three days for the Zangre and her high marriage to Ias dy Chalion, proper destiny for her birth and beauty. But Cazaril was to have waited her table tonight, and he would have at least been in her presence.

It was not going to get better before the end of the week, either. Cazaril would have to plan for something if he was even going to get into the hall this week. And the pail over the door to the library filled with mud was definitely Nalven; he never appreciated the books kept by the Provincar. Cazaril hadn't been carrying one out of the library because he was going to service, but it was often otherwise. If nothing else, the possessions of the great lord and his great lady should be shown more respect.

Swallowing his burning shame back down to the pit of his stomach, Cazaril got himself sufficiently into order to report to the master of pages for his inevitable discipline.

#

"What are we going to do with you, dy Cazaril? Your brother never plagued our library so, boy."

Cazaril stood literally on the carpet, holding to a pose of attention that would keep him from displaying how little he liked Elzan dy Hixar, the master of pages. It would certainly have done no good to argue the merits of improving his mind by reading when the man was under the impression that Cazaril had so lost track of time as to miss his appointment at service. He could not have turned in Nalven, having no proof and not wanting to acquire a reputation as a spineless, sniping sycophant. Good phrase; he would have to remember it for his next verse. Maybe he could vent some feeling.

"No, sir."

"Well, if you can't focus on what you should be doing, boy, I'll have to make you focus. For the next week, you'll be waiting the tables of the servants at breakfast, lunch and dinner, and have your own meals afterwards in the kitchen!"

Cazaril opened his mouth for a moment before snapping it shut. No, protest would do no good, but dy Hixar would have to be made to reconsider his decision later. The pages would be thin stretched at the upcoming fetes as it was; if, for instance, Cindon dy Nalven were to fall even further into disfavor than Cazaril, more pressing needs must surely elevate him at least back into the hall. Still, that would not get him close to the high table. He would have to think on that. But for the moment…

"Yes, sir."

#

"Nalven, why do you think Royse Ias split his forces before the Golden General met them?"

"Well, he was going to catch them in the pass, so it wasn't like a proper battle. He was just going to slow them down, until Roya Fonsa worked his death magic."

Beyajar dy Valenda, the provincar's master of sword, retired marshal of troops and a very minor noble of their own capitol city, had taken to tutoring the young pages on the finer points of strategy and tactics. For all that he could be a brutal and bloody handed man as he drove them in the steps of the duello or tossed them in with a bull to put it down, he seemed as sharp in his mind as his blade to Cazaril, and the pages had all learned that it did not pay to let their attention wander when he was near.

"Cazaril, you frown. Enlighten us."

Cazaril inwardly cursed his unveiled expression, but at least it might offer some opportunity to show up Nalven; perhaps if he did it now, Nalven would be less on guard for true retribution later, thinking the score temporarily against him. In any case, he had best not delay answer.

"I was thinking, sir, that the real reason that Royce Ias split his forces was because the Golden General was not troubling to hide his intentions."

Dy Valenda considered Cazaril. It was a little unnerving; Cazaril could never quite decide whether Valenda liked him or not. Sometimes, he would seem to approve of an answer Cazaril made or of the speed with which he dispatched a bull, but sometimes it seemed that he drove Cazaril like a mule. Also, dy Valenda was the oldest man Cazaril had ever seen, yet despite his fondness for afternoon naps, he seemed all the more keen when he was alert.

"So what did he plan, then? Surely you don't think he knew that Fonsa would kill the Golden General before he battle."

"No, but I don't think he proposed to defeat the whole army at one go. Consider, sir, that there was no good route but that pass and that Ias had time to prepare. He put a solid line at the end of the pass, bottling the army there, while he hid the remainder halfway up it. So he managed to divide the Golden General's forces, and even if the man were not dead, that meant a whole section of troops were cut off from his guidance, and they'd really become dependant on him by then. Even if he hadn't been so spectacularly killed and the rest of his forces panicked just then, Ias would have succeeded in crushing nearly a third of the Golden General's army.

"Of course," Cazaril couldn't help admitting, "if Fonsa hadn't performed his death magic, the Golden General would probably have performed some tactical miracle the rest of us couldn't even imagine. And he still had half again more troops than Ias, even if he'd lost every one cut off without inflicting a single casualty in return."

"And it was the panic that truly did for the Roknari armies," dy Valenda approved this analysis with a nod. "Let this be a lesson against complacency." All the pages got a fishy eye after this line and they all squirmed uncomfortably.

"Nalven!" Nalven flinched. "If you ever hope to be a soldier fit to do more than scrub the boots of a Holy General's master of horse, I suggest you turn your head from the ladies and put it to some use studying a campaign now and then.

"Cazaril!" Cazaril straightened. "Well thought out. Had you examined this campaign before?"

"Yes sir." He tried to keep his voice free of inflection. Pride was fine, but he was feeling decidedly smug, and that would not go over well. Flat and factual, that was the ticket.

"Well done."

And dy Valenda moved onward, but that was as much praise as anyone received from the man. Cazaril managed not to flush, and waited for the end of the lesson.

#

"Ser dy Valenda? Might I have a word?"

The other pages were hustling off, but Caz thought he could afford a minute before submitting to the day's lessons on Darthican declensions. The languages came rather more easily to him than to most of the pages and his assignments were in good order; he had made sure of it, today. Dy Valenda frowned at Caz, but lifted his chin in permission.

"Sir, you have served the Provincar and Provincara for some years, have you not?" Again, the lift of the chin. "The Provincara is fond of music is she not?" The line between dy Valenda's eyes grew deeper.

"Boy, are you wasting my time?"

Well, Cazaril had to admit to himself that he probably was; certainly the first two questions were rhetorical in their nature and dy Valenda had often said that at his age, he had few enough seconds of life left to waste. It was probably a measure of how much Cazaril had pleased the man that he hadn't already snapped out something a good deal angrier. Best get right to it.

"I was wondering, sir, if you knew any particular tunes or airs or hymns that the great lady likes." Dy Valenda's eyebrows shot up above his sunken, wrinkled cheeks.

"Currying favor, are you, boy?" Cazaril waited for a minute, thinking this a rhetorical question in return for his own, but the old sword master seemed to expect an actual reply. Well, if his intentions were that transparent, where was the good in hiding them?

"Yes, sir."

The old soldier let out a barked "Ha!" and settled himself in a chair to consider his young charge. Cazaril did his best not to squirm. It was difficult, but dy Valenda set great store by youngsters showing respect to their elders, particularly himself. Patience, he schooled himself, then reflected that if he was schooling himself in this, the old man's lessons must really be taking root.

"Her first dance with the Provincar was to the tune of the Lady's Violets."

Cazaril held his breath for a moment, exceedingly pleased to have the answer be a tune he already knew. But it would not do to go bolting out of dy Valenda's presence at this minor triumph.

"Thank you sir. That was all I wished to ask. May I go now to my language studies?"

A wave of a gnarled hand, and Cazaril was released to bolt. He didn't see dy Valenda's smile, at least as smug as the one he had suppressed.

#

Early afternoon found Cazaril practicing his lute in one of the quiet little bowers in which the Provincara sometimes took in the early spring air. If she weren't sewing or holding court on some question of domestic management too trivial for her husband's authority, it was pleasant enough for her.

Today, he was especially confident of her appearance. A very small quantity of rotten eggs was enough to make her usual room quite unfit for her to use, and the gloves he had used to keep his hands clean were hidden away in Nalven's room. Let him try to explain that. It had, of course, been necessary for him to bathe well to conceal any trace of the smell from himself.

It was unfortunate that he could not sing to accompany his lute, for the lyrics to the Provincara's favorite tune would have more surely garnered her attention, but his voice was going through that mortifying tectonic shift that left it unfit for any but the most careful use. In any case, he practiced one of the harder pieces of arpeggio repeatedly, making sure he could flow through it smoothly when the moment arrived.

It was not long before he heard her haranguing the master of pages and striding out into the garden.

"And be sure you find whoever put that horrid stench in the room. None of the servants would have dared, you can be sure of that."

With a grim "Aye, m'lady," dy Hixar turned away, and Cazaril began with the Lady's Violets all in their buds, plinking out what he hoped was a most pleasant and melodious rendition of the piece. Soon enough, the Provincara appeared around the little path and Cazaril contrived not to notice her immediately. Half a phrase into the second verse, he looked up as if startled and made as if to rise and cease.

As he had hoped, the Provincara's hand raised. "Pray continue, Cazaril," she bade him, her voice uncharacteristically soft. Concealing his flush of hope and pleasure, he sat slowly, nodded, and picked up at the start of the verse again. He watched her for a moment to make it clear that, performing or not, he attended her most closely, but he had to bend his head again to be sure of the placement of his fingers. It might have been a nice touch to not look down at all, but the risk of a false note was far too great.

She listened to the entirety of the tune and he looked up again as he heard her let out a little sigh.

"You play quite pleasingly, Cazaril. Why have I not heard you before?" Cazaril managed a little shrug with the right degree of diffidence and embarrassment. He didn't think he could hide the flush of pleasure at her compliment, however; she, who was the center of this court, truly enjoyed his performance!

"Thank you, m'lady. I have not devoted my energies to the lute so much as to poetry and swordsmanship, so I was reluctant to perform before so great an audience. But the day was so fair…" He trailed off and looked up, making a gesture around them, for the day was indeed quite fine.

"Come, come, Cazaril! If you do not allow others to see your efforts, you will never have the true measure of their worth. I say your playing is pleasing, and I shall have you by the high table for the fests in our Ista's honor." She paused a moment, considering. "Make yourself a program for light music at dinner and half an hour after of dancing, before you'll give the duties over. Tell the master of pages that you are to be taken off your other duties, excepting your lessons of course, to prepare for the last day before Ista leaves us."

"Yes, m'lady!" Cazaril squeaked in his joy, then cleared his throat, abashed. He jumped to his feet, bowed over his lute, nearly dropped the instrument, then ran off into the castle.

#

Ista dy Baocia, soon to be Royina Ista dy Chalion, was glorious in a gown of the Daughter's colors. Delicate and elegant, the fete tonight clearly revolved around her. Usually, the whole court clearly revolved around the Provincara, but for one night, she was satisfied to bask in the reflected glory of her daughter.

She danced and she laughed, and Cazaril was near enough to smell her perfume. He missed a few notes when she twirled too close, but he managed not to disgrace himself to any great degree. He ended his performance with the Provincara's favorite and was gratified to see that even the Provincar seemed to take notice of the choice and ask his wife to take a rare turn on the floor.

Soon enough, however, the evening was over and Cazaril returned to his narrow room, contemplating the fact that tomorrow, the pages would be without the object of their hopeless infatuations. Ah, well; even at his age, Cazaril was aware that there would be more infatuations in his life.

#

The Provincara swept into the study, waking Ser dy Valenda from a light, post-party doze. He harrumphed in his own peculiar fashion and straightened out his vest cloak.

"You really ought to get back to your room to sleep. You'll catch a chill," she informed him with a tone between asperity and concern. Dy Valenda harrumphed again and raised a hand, either deflecting or agreeing as he straightened in his seat. The Provincara sighed in what her old sword master thought was a rather theatrical manner.

"So why is it you were pointing dy Cazaril at me, Beyajar? You don't usually play favorites." It wasn't often that she used his first name, and when she did, it was not actually to reduce the conversation's formality. It emphasized that she was the Provincara, and his position came through her approval, at least as much as her husband's. It also meant that he had better answer.

"Boy shows promise. And not just as a poet or lutenist. He's a thinker. Gets below the surface of things. Keep an eye on him and let him stick with his books and you'll be glad of him some day."

The Provincara considered her retainer seriously; the man had certainly earned that. Cazaril had not much risen to her attention before this, which might be a sign of intelligence in a page, indeed. But he had in the last few days, clearly by intention, and clearly because he was hopelessly in love with Ista -- like the rest of her pimply pubescent pages. Beautiful, kind and clearly unattainable as she was, of course they would be. Even the Elvan dy Hixar had nothing worse to say of the boy than that he was forever running off to the library. And there were certainly much worse vices than that.

"Very well. We shall see what becomes of young dy Cazaril."


End file.
